Monday, June 1, 2015

Some things are beyond forgiveness

There was a time when I didn’t quite know what to think
about the Irish Republican Army.

Before going any further, I should explain my background. My
mother was of staunch Irish Catholic stock and I was raised in an environment soaked
in Irish Catholicism.

I don’t recall Mum ever expressing a view on the Irish
political question, but it probably wasn’t necessary. I was genetically
programmed to feel sympathetic to Irish nationalists and to resent the English
for what they had done to Ireland.

Besides, I had leftist leanings in my younger days (didn’t
we all?), and there was a certain romanticism about Irish revolutionaries and
the heroic failure of their attempts to throw off British shackles.

Irish republicans became very adept at exploiting this romantic aura.
In 1985, in the midst of the Troubles, I observed a big republican march on
Belfast’s Falls Rd. Gerry Adams, who even then was the leader of the Sinn Fein
party, was in the front row.

Surrounding him were beaming Irish-American Catholic
visitors, mostly from the Boston area – generous donors to the republican movement
who were made a great fuss of by their hosts and who no doubt thought they were
contributing to the holiest of causes.

Did it occur to them that their dollars might have paid for
bombs that killed innocent people? I doubt it.

I’m not sure exactly when I stopped thinking of the IRA as
righteous freedom fighters. Initially I rationalised their acts of terrorism as
terrible but defensible. I persuaded myself that sometimes the end justifies
the means – a rationale that psychopathic ideologues have used as an excuse for
all manner of abominable acts.

But eventually I arrived at an absolutely clear position
from which I’ve never deviated since. This was that nothing justifies the
killing of innocent people; not under any circumstances.

No cause is so righteous that it entitles those pursuing it
to take the lives of people, even children, who have done nothing wrong
and probably have no power whatsoever to control events.

Of course that’s exactly what terrorists do. They achieve
their goals by creating fear and by making it clear that they will go on
committing atrocities until the other side loses its nerve and caves in.

This holds true whether it’s in Baghdad, Paris or Northern
Ireland (where, I should add, the IRA was not alone: the British Army shot 26
civilians in the 1972 Bloody Sunday massacre, and Protestant loyalists also
killed indiscriminately).

You can argue about whether soldiers are legitimate targets.
Soldiers enlist in the knowledge that their lives might be on the line. They
have a choice.

But ordinary citizens waiting for a bus, eating in a café or
travelling on a plane have no say in their fate. Murdering them requires a
complete forsaking of conscience and morality.

The worst of the Irish republican bombings took place in
Omagh as recently as 1998. Twenty-nine people were killed and 220 injured. The
bombing paradoxically accelerated progress toward a peace agreement because of
the public revulsion it caused. It was a
rare case of an unintended consequence being a good one.

That terrorist act was carried out by an IRA splinter group
which had parted company with the “official” leadership, but the bombing differed
from IRA-endorsed atrocities only in scale. The nature of the act was the same.

Which brings me back to Gerry Adams. The Sinn Fein leader has
denied repeated allegations that he was an IRA man, but the taint is there. It’s
hard to imagine that a man who was for so long at the centre of the republican struggle
isn’t stained with blood.

What, then, are we to make of the highly publicised
and carefully orchestrated handshake between Adams and Prince Charles, whose great-uncle Lord Mountbatten
was killed by an IRA bomb?

Part of me wants to applaud the meeting as a testament to
the power of forgiveness and reconciliation.

We already had the extraordinary example of the incongruous
friendship that blossomed between the Protestant loyalist demagogue Ian Paisley
and the former IRA commander Martin McGuinness, whose rapport led to them being
labelled the “Chuckle brothers” by the British media.

If those two formerly implacable enemies could bury the
hatchet, what more appropriate sequel could there be than for the heir to the
British throne to put aside Adams’ dodgy past and walk arm-in-arm with him,
metaphorically speaking, into a golden future?

If you will allow me, I would like to post a response to your statement "some things are beyond forgiveness" from a Ravensbruck concentration camp survivor, Corrie Ten Boom. May it touch your heart as it did mine when I first read it, and again even now as I post it to you almost 40 years years later.

Corrie Ten Boom Story on Forgiving

“It was in a church in Munich that I saw him—a balding, heavyset man in a gray overcoat, a brown felt hat clutched between his hands. People were filing out of the basement room where I had just spoken, moving along the rows of wooden chairs to the door at the rear. It was 1947 and I had come from Holland to defeated Germany with the message that God forgives.

“It was the truth they needed most to hear in that bitter, bombed-out land, and I gave them my favorite mental picture. Maybe because the sea is never far from a Hollander’s mind, I liked to think that that’s where forgiven sins were thrown. ‘When we confess our sins,’ I said, ‘God casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever. …’

“The solemn faces stared back at me, not quite daring to believe. There were never questions after a talk in Germany in 1947. People stood up in silence, in silence collected their wraps, in silence left the room.

“And that’s when I saw him, working his way forward against the others. One moment I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and a visored cap with its skull and crossbones. It came back with a rush: the huge room with its harsh overhead lights; the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the center of the floor; the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister’s frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin. Betsie, how thin you were! [Betsie and I had been arrested for concealing Jews in our home during the Nazi occupation of Holland; this man had been a guard at Ravensbruck concentration camp where we were sent.]

“Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: ‘A fine message, Fräulein! How good it is to know that, as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!’ “And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take that hand. He would not remember me, of course—how could he remember one prisoner among those thousands of women?

“But I remembered him and the leather crop swinging from his belt. I was face-to-face with one of my captors and my blood seemed to freeze.

“You mentioned Ravensbruck in your talk,’ he was saying, ‘I was a guard there.’ No, he did not remember me.

“But since that time,’ he went on, ‘I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Fräulein,’ again the hand came out—’will you forgive me?’

I wonder how Corrie Ten Boom might have felt if she'd come across Reinhard Heydrich instead of some relatively benign guard? Because that was Adams' position, a prime instigator of murder, rather than a bystander. I have the utmost admiration for Price Charles. I could not do what he did. And as for those Americans who funded the IRA - well, the chickens came home to roost. As soon as they experienced terrorism on their own soil they realised that NORAID was no better than Isis.

About Me

I am a freelance journalist and columnist living in the Wairarapa region of New Zealand. In the presence of Greenies I like to boast that I walk to work each day - I've paced it out and it's about 15 metres. I write about all sorts of stuff: politics, the media, music, wine, films, cycling and anything else that piques my interest - even sport, though I admit I don't have the intuitive understanding of sport that most New Zealand males absorb as if by osmosis. I'm a former musician (bass and guitar) with a lifelong love of music that led me to write my book 'A Road Tour of American Song Titles: From Mendocino to Memphis', published by Bateman NZ in July 2016. I've been in journalism for more than 40 years and like many journalists I know a little bit about a lot of things and probably not enough about anything. I have never won any journalism awards.